“Followed by the fundraiser at the Ashby Theater,” Charlotte added. “Which is a big deal, because it’s the first time in years that the Ashby’s offered to have a jam session.”
“Jam session?” Arran replayed the phrase in his head. “That sounds violent.”
Charlotte’s grin resurfaced. “It’s when folks get together to play bluegrass music. And in this case,Christmasbluegrass.”
“Bluegrass?”
Her eyes lit. “Oh, you definitely need an introduction to bluegrass.”
“With an activity known as a ‘jam session’ and music referred to as ‘bluegrass,’ I’m simultaneously intrigued and terrified.”
Her lips quivered toward another smile. “Well, thereisfood involved too. And dancing, of course.”
“And you dance?”
A rush of pink deepened her cheeks, and he stared for longer than he’d intended. “Thatkind of dancing, yes. Not”—she waved at him and looked back at the papers—“yourkind of dancing.”
A blush suited her.
Very well.
So did laughing.
In fact, the soft, feminine look of her in that cozy sweater and long braid matched the woman he was beginning to understand better with each passing day. What a marvelous combination for such a strong, skilled woman to possess a gentle beauty she didn’t even seem to know she had.
“I’m less concerned about dancing and more about my presentation skills, or lack thereof.”
He relaxed back in the chair and studied her. “When I first started public speaking, my grandfather told me to remember three points. Of course, there were additional things like volume and rate of speech, as well as eye contact with some in the crowd. But in writing the speech, he boiled the necessities down to three.”
Charlotte rested her chin on the heel of her palm, waiting.
“Firstly.” He held up one finger. “Gratitude or welcome. So, simply welcoming those who are listening or thanking them for their time.”
“That doesn’t seem so hard.”
“Right.” He grinned. “A natural thing to do when you’re thankful for the opportunity, yes?”
She nodded, and he continued by raising two fingers. “Acknowledge the story.”
“The story?”
“This part is the heart of your speech. Taking the history or the passion of what you’re discussing and passing it on to your listeners. This is where you can give a brief history of why The Wish was created and, perhaps, the reason you believe it’s worthwhile.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.” She studied him, her brows pinching a little, before she steadied her gaze in his. “I... I was one of those children.”
Even though he’d suspected as much, the declaration constricted his chest.
“At first I didn’t think my mom’s absence impacted me so much because she had slowly been disappearing from my life for months before she finally left. But then as those weeks turned into years, this lingering ache began to grow.” She looked down at the papers, her hand moving to squeeze her braid, almost as if the action brought comfort. “I had this weird sort of wrestling match going on inside of me, between wanting to hide because of my own shame and to escape people’s pity, or to just let people see how lost I was.”
“Yourshame?”
Her gaze rose. “I know it’s not true, but there was this lingering feeling that I was the reason she left. That I wasn’t good enough for her to stay, to choose me over her drugs.”
“Charlotte,” he whispered. And without a second thought, he covered her hand on the table.
“But then again, I didn’t want to be forgotten. I didn’t want people to assume my life was like everyone else’s, and that there wasn’t this giant mom-sized hole taking up permanent residence in my soul.”
A glossy sheen filled those silver eyes. He slid from his chair and moved to the one nearest her, taking her wrist into his hand as she turned to him. She didn’t seem to notice his touch, lost in her hurt.
